


I'm cold (but you light the fire in me)

by behzaintfunny



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M, Pazzo loves his Monto, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-08-28 21:53:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16731309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/behzaintfunny/pseuds/behzaintfunny
Summary: "Giampaolo is tired of rainy days. He lives to see sunshine, and it shines within Riccardo's eyes."





	I'm cold (but you light the fire in me)

The last thing Giampaolo could have possibly expected to come home to is Riccardo laying on the sofa, wearing _his_ sweater and failing miserably to fall asleep.

He can tell even from the doorstep by the way Riccardo cannot quite find a comfortable position to lay in, constantly shifting and pulling at the sleeves of the old damn thing that Giampaolo could never quite get rid of. Perhaps that's why. Riccardo curses under his nose as he struggles to blindly find the box of tissues that has fallen onto the floor. Giampaolo settles the paper bag filled with groceries atop the kitchen counter before rushing over to kneel at Riccardo's side. He picks up the ostentatiously purple box and puts it next to one of Riccardo's hands before willing away the strands of hair covering his eyes.

"Wake up, princess," he jokes, tone light as he hooks random strands of Riccardo's hair around his ear, "Miss me? I bought some veggies. I'm going to make you my mamma's famous vegetable soup. You're bound to be alright in no time."

The smile that threatens to grace Riccardo's face is enough to quieten all of Giampaolo's worries. He sniffles, stubborn in only then reaching for a tissue, before gently opening his eyes to look at Giampaolo properly.

Even puffy and slightly tinged red, those eyes still provide the most calming of gazes, as they always will. He blows his nose, forehead scrunching in the process, before attempting to find Giampaolo's hand with his own. It feels oddly light in his, so unlike any other time when it radiated a pleasant warmth, as compared to now, cold and weak.

"Am I dead, Giampi?" Riccardo says quietly, voice wretched because of his aching throat, but the smile on his face betrays him as it always does, "You, cooking for me? It cannot possibly be true."

"I can assure you this is indeed happening," Giampaolo pinches Riccardo's cheek at the remark, "Now, stay here and be a good boy, I'll make you another cup of tea. This one's bound to be cold by now."

"Lord, have mercy," Riccardo jokingly sighs, letting go of Giampaolo's hand to allow him to walk over to turn the kettle on, "You're so embarassing."

"And vice versa, sweetheart," Giampaolo smiles as he washes the remnants of old tea from the mug him and Riccardo got years ago, when Giampaolo first moved to his own place, "I'm afraid it's contagious."

Riccardo snorts which only makes him go into a short coughing fit, "That's insensitive. You know I don't want to give you a cold, right?"

"Hmm, why do I not trust you?"

Giampaolo measures out some mint tea and lets it brew for a moment, until the flavors fully develop. He has learned from his mother at an early age that mint tea is indeed a cure to everything, and he plans to live by this rule. Riccardo blows his nose from over at the couch, rearranging the blanket so that it covers his feet. Giampaolo laughs when he kicks his legs out to stretch them and the blanket rises up to his ankles. He pretends not to have seen Riccardo flipping him off, instead focusing on not spilling any of the boiling hot mint tea on his way to him. He sets it at the nearby coffee table, on the very much out of place Azzurri coaster that, too, has seen better days.

"Would you like anything else? The soup is going to take a while but I could make you a snack. Any medicine? I could get you cough drops if your throat is bothering you too much--"

"Stop for a second, Giampi, please," Riccardo says as Giampaolo throws his hoodie over Riccardo's exposed feet, "You're so insufferable. Why do I put up with you?"

"Because you love me, idiot," Giampaolo grins, "Now that that's out of the way, will you be a sweetheart and sit up for a moment? As lovely as our carpet may be, I don't plan to stay here much longer."

So he does, with strained effort as his untamed hair yet again falls to cover his eyes. Riccardo looks at him then, eyes glassy and lips puckered, and Giampaolo cannot refrain anymore. The kiss that lands on Riccardo's lips is likely gentler than he'd like it to be, the softest brush of lips that makes Giampaolo feel a pleasant warmth inside his chest, or a tingling, perhaps. Riccardo's hands come up to settle on the back of his head, cold and shaking, running through his hair. They part away reluctantly, only after Giampaolo lands one final kiss on Riccardo's cheek.

"Giampi," Riccardo says, voice rough and the gentlest hint of a smile on his face. If Giampaolo hadn't already, he would have fallen in love with him there and then, "Stop this. You're going to catch it."

"Hmm, let me do the overthinking for once," Giampaolo says, toying with the loose ends of Riccardo's hair, "Let's see. I get to kiss the love of my life and make his quite miserable day better, then I get to stay home sick and kiss him more. Yeah, I don't think your point stands a chance against mine."

He'll never grow tired of watching Riccardo smile, the corners of his eyes wrinkling and his face painted in a delicate blush. Each smile is like the first one, igniting the same sheepish feeling deep inside his heart. It's embarassing, really, and he'll never say it out loud to Riccardo. He knows, either way.

The feeling is mutual, after all. It's as clear as day.

Giampaolo hands him the cup of mint tea from the coffee table and drapes his arm over Riccardo, drawing circles on the familiar material of his old sweater.

"Drink," Giampaolo says gently, head leaning against his shoulder, "It'll make you feel better."

The frown on Riccardo's face is self-explanatory but he sips the warm beverage nonetheless. He grimaces once it's all the way down his throat and wipes a tissue haphazardly against his nose.

"Everything okay, Ricky?" Giampaolo asks.

Riccardo looks at him with wide blown eyes, if only for the briefest fleeting second, before collecting himself. His hand slips away from Giampaolo's before he stretches it out with strained effort.

"My joints hurt. It's the pressure, I think," Riccardo says, head cocked and eyebrows furrowed, "It's really annoying me."

"Would you like me to massage it out?"

Riccardo hums noncommittally and offers his hand without hesitation. Giampaolo thumbs at the sore flesh, rubbing circles inbetween the knuckles, pressing harder on the upper side of the hand. It's pleasantly relaxing, so much that Riccardo throws his head back against the couch in attempt to calm his gradually forming headache. He only occasionally blows his nose, otherwise not disrupting the comforting silence he has found himself in. Riccardo's hands have seen better days, for sure, but they still hold a beauty Giampaolo can't quite put into words. He loves holding Riccardo's hand. It's this slight bit of intimacy he's never attempted to hide, one that doesn't come off as platonic as their celebrations used to, but bears much more meaning.

It's not just any ordinary hands, after all.

It's his _captain's_ hands. His _lover's._

He marvels in the sense of peace the massage brings Riccardo, his eyes daring to close shut but not quite, not until he decides so. When he presses into a particularly sensitive spot, he wonders how those hands would look clutched tightly against the league cup, never wanting to let go.

He can dream. He will, actually.

He often daydreams of all the other ways Riccardo's career could have gone, more often than he'd like to admit. Maybe if not for the horrible leg injury, or the others that followed, a different path would have been laid before him. One that didn't concern Milan, perhaps, but would that have ever even happened? He'll never truly know.

Giampaolo drapes the forgotten blanket over their bodies, patting it against Riccardo's thighs so that it lays properly, before taking his other hand in his. He brings it up to his lips, leaving scarce kisses on each knuckle as Riccardo's eyes open delicately to look at him. The gaze one never truly forgets, not those eyes, those gorgeous eyes, one Giampaolo will never quite get over.

Riccardo gently bites down on his lip and wipes his nose with the sleeve of his sweater, "I don't need to be babied, you know? I can take care of myself, it's just a little more difficult when everything is aching."

"Then I guess I have to make you feel better, work my magic," Giampaolo smiles as he presses into the skin on his hands, not nearly harshly enough to hurt, "Or to take care of you forever. Either way, you're stuck with me. Better quit complaining."

Little tears start falling down Riccardo's cheeks, much more from his eyes likely stinging rather than him getting emotional, not when he gleams at Giampaolo with his most genuine, gentlest smile. Giampaolo quickly reaches to brush them away before Riccardo can do so, earning himself a light hit on the shoulder. It's not like Riccardo can afford much more, not in his current state, at least.

"Don't you have any actually urgent responsibilities? Surely you do," Riccardo says, shifting slightly to invite Giampaolo to scoot over and let him lay his head in his lap, "And, before you say it, I'm not complaing. Really! I just don't want you to feel like I'm holding you back."

"Enough of that nonsense," Giampaolo replies, letting Riccardo's hand fall loose before tangling his hands in his hair, "Would you just let me take care of you like the good husband I am?"

Riccardo giggles, the edges of the sound sharp from his sore throat, "We're not married, Giampi."

Giampaolo chuckles, rubbing calming circles against Riccardo's scalp, "Sure, we're not. Whatever you say."

The bag of veggies in the kitchen is quickly put aside to be dealt with later. He'll cook for Riccardo once he lets go of him, which is likely not going to happen anytime soon. Giampaolo is not complaining.

He stops thinking straight once he feels Riccardo slowly falling asleep under his ministrations, calmly enduring having his hair played with until sleep takes him in her arms. Giampaolo's back hurts when he's sitting like this but he wouldn't have it any other way, not with Riccardo finally surrendering and letting go. He thinks, it wouldn't hurt neither of them to have this go on a little longer. Giampaolo loves those scarce moments when he gets to experience this Riccardo, untouched by any worries, lips slightly agape in a passive serenity. He brushes a hand against Riccardo's forehead to check if his fever has gone down. It's about the same as it was before, leading Riccardo into a dreamless, feverish sleep. Giampaolo curls the ends of Riccardo's hair around his fingers and wonders what sort of fate brought them here. Years before the realization that they were never going to let go of eachother hit, he'd never thought he'd get to experience a lifetime with somebody, anybody. Settling in with someone has seemed like such a bizarre idea back then, even with Riccardo making his presence in Giampaolo's life known. It seemed almost natural to fall in love with him.

How could he not?

It's _his Ricky_. The only person he'd ever want to share an entire lifetime with unabashedly, despite it being a rocky road at times. Surrendering to falling in love with him was by far the easiest choice he has ever had to made.

Giampaolo is tired of rainy days. He lives to see sunshine, and it shines within Riccardo's eyes.

"Come to bed," Giampaolo whispers, running a hand against Riccardo's cheek, "I'll join you in time."

Riccardo hums sleepily, not yet fully awake but attempting to raise his head. Giampaolo is quick to help him, a delicate hand against the back of his head and another on his shoulder to slowly hoist him upwards. He's not even looking at Giampaolo yet his hand finds his face nonetheless, caressing his cheek and his lips.

"Promise?" he whispers and, suddenly, Giampaolo sees the same young, passionate boy he had met in the Primavera, in an overly large kit much like his own.

_"I don't have any friends here yet, Giampi. Will you be my best friend?"_

_Giampi laughs because of how ridiculous this is but he stops once he sees a rather sad frown daring to appear on Ricky's face. He thinks, he doesn't want to see that._

_Not ever._

_"Of course, Ricky!" he is quick to say._

_Riccardo beams at him, eyes wide open and a hesitant smile on his face, before catching Giampi's hand in his own, "Promise?"_

_The kids outside start yelling at them to move along and join the rest of the team, but he doesn't hear them. Neither of them do. Giampi gulps and says resolutely,_

"I promise."

Riccardo falls into his arms like many times before and lets himself be held, overcome by tiredness and the sickness alike. Giampaolo kisses the back of his ear gently, unwilling to let go just yet. Maybe he doesn't ever want to. It feels like a lightning bolt has struck his heart, and he cannot get enough of it.

He holds Riccardo's face in his hands and only then does he reluctantly open his eyes. Giampaolo kisses him like the world doesn't exist around them, they're invincible and they will never again be apart. Such wishes can truly only be put into a kiss, the most genuine of silent exchanges, but he means them nonetheless. He gets high off of Riccardo's lips on his own, crazy in more ways than one, and even though so much is left unspoken, everything is clear.

It's in the way Riccardo doesn't wish to let go, not as he's slowly coming back to awareness, and holds onto Giampaolo's shoulders with a firm force. It's in the noise that escapes his throat, more similar to a cry if anything, and he doesn't attempt to stop it.

It's in _Riccardo_.

Giampaolo goes on to carry him to bed, throwing the heavy duvet and a blanket over him before kissing him goodnight. Riccardo is asleep before he even exits the bedroom. The cup is still on the coffee table where he left it. He puts it in the sink, alongside the one they got when Riccardo first started living independently. He takes the veggies out of the bag and washes them thoroughly. He looks at the couch, where the fuzzy blanket is proudly displayed. He considers.

He throws it around his shoulder for good measure, and for if he really did catch a cold. It smells of Riccardo, soothes his heart and makes him determined not to join him in bed at this very moment. The soup will not cook itself but he will join him eventually, shortly, to huddle for warmth and comfort alike.

After all, he promised.

**Author's Note:**

> I am indeed sick, and that is why I made Monto hurt for me. But it's okay because he has his Pazzo to take care of him. (and guess what? I don't) This fic wrote itself, really. Still, I'm very glad it happened. I hope this makes anyone other than me giddy and happy, too.
> 
> This was heavily inspired by "One year of love" by Queen, which I've been listening to for the past three hours and still am, hence the title. Such a beautiful song. I encourage everyone to give it a listen, even though the lyrics don't portray Pazzolivo perfectly, they still do it very well.
> 
> All kudos and comments are appreciated as always! Just because I don't reply doesn't mean I don't read them because *trust me*, I do.


End file.
